


from the ashes of our pasts

by S_Hylor



Series: Bingo Round 1 2018 [2]
Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputation, Disabled Character, Getting Together, M/M, Physical Disability, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, sadly not a porno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 10:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/S_Hylor
Summary: Servicing LAYLAH Lifters in people’s bathrooms was not what Tony had seen himself doing back when he’d been going through college. It wasn’t what he’d envisioned himself doing when he’d started up JT Technologies, or when he’d taken over Stark Industries.A brain tumour and an alcohol problem, and oh how the mighty had fallen.





	from the ashes of our pasts

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea from a lovely little story I found on one of those blogs advertised through tumblr, about white lies people told, but the good results that come out of it. The story was about a home visit nurse who lied about the way she drank her coffee (said she drank it black, just to keep things simple) while being polite and accepting a coffee from her patient, and how it went on for years and she never had to heart to say she didn't drink her coffee black at all. 
> 
> It was such a sweet story that it really stuck with me, and I imagined writing something similar for Steve and Tony, and eventually this happened.
> 
> Big thanks to quandong_crumble for the beta, and SirSapling for all the encouragement and cheering along the way.
> 
> Also for my "google me if you don't believe it" bingo square.

Closing the panel back over and fitting the screws back in place, Tony twists the screwdriver, rolling it between his fingertips until the screws start to pull tight. He makes sure they’re all done up properly before packing away his tools back into his bag, carefully smearing silicon around the edge of the panel to water proof it again. Wiping the excess silicon off his fingers he chances rubbing at his temples, feeling the headache already starting to brew there. He glances over his shoulder at the squeak of rubber behind him, finding his customer had wheeled himself into the doorway and seemed to be studying his handiwork.

Servicing LAYLAH Lifters in people’s bathrooms was not what Tony had seen himself doing back when he’d been going through college. It wasn’t what he’d envisioned himself doing when he’d started up JT Technologies, or when he’d taken over Stark Industries.

A brain tumour and an alcohol problem, and oh how the mighty had fallen.

As Greg took pleasure in reminding him.

Pushing the thoughts from his head, Tony gives his customer as pleasant a press smile as he can manage, reminding himself to make eye contact and not ogle the empty space where the man’s legs used to be.

“All done, Mr Rogers, should be working as good as new.” He tilts his head towards the lifting sling above the bath, before turning his attention back to closing his tool bag up and clambering to his feet. His head spins a bit as he does, but he recovers before he can stagger at all.

Rogers nods at him, manoeuvring his wheelchair back out of the doorway so Tony can exit the bathroom. “Thank you.”

Sometimes the customers chat to him, talk non-stop as he fixes things or goes through routine maintenance. Sometimes he’s let in by a carer or family member and he never sees the actual customer. Rogers had been the one to answer the door, but the whole time he’d been there, he’d barely said ten words to him.

Which is why it comes as a surprise when he’s almost at the front door, the squeak of rubber tyres on floorboards following him down the hallway, that Rogers speaks again.

“Did you, uh.” Rogers clears his throat. “Did you want a coffee before you go?”

The words _it’s against company policy_ are on the tip of his tongue when he glances over his shoulder and catches sight of the expression on Rogers’ face before that stoic mask slips back into place. He’s lonely, Tony thinks. He could be wrong. Lonely is Mrs Talbot in her big house that had once been full of children and a husband but now was just her. She’d follow him around the house and talk, always talking. Lonely people didn’t avoid him and not say anything, not usually. Except he thinks Rogers is lonely.

And he gets it.

Which is why he forces a smile and nods.

He’s on the clock, and a part of him feels guilty, because he should be going back to the office and checking in before heading to the repair workshop. He does feel guilty, but when Rogers’ lips twitch, like an almost smile, it pales in comparison. Company policy be damned.

“How do you take it?”

 _Creamer, two sugars, or black and half whiskey_. He presses the smile a little more firmly onto his lips and tells himself to keep it simple, and to keep the drinking to outside of work hours. “Black is fine.”

Rogers nods, rolling back up the hallway before turning into the kitchen. Setting his tool bag down by the front door, Tony follows him into the kitchen, hovering in the doorway, not sure if he should sit at the table or not, watching as Rogers takes two mugs off of an honest to god mug tree and pours coffee out of a pot from the machine on the counter.

He means to offer to help carry the mugs back to the small kitchen table, or even just take his off the counter top, but there’s something about the determined set of Roger’s jaw that stops him from interfering. Instead he just stands there in the doorway and watches as Rogers picks up one mug and carefully manoeuvres his wheelchair one handed over to the table and sets the coffee down.

He glances up at Tony as he rolls back across the kitchen to grab the second mug, jaw still set tight as he nods towards the table.

He’s not supposed to, Tony know it, he shouldn’t loiter, he should head back to the office, but he doesn’t. He sits down at Roger’s small kitchen table and drinks coffee with him. The coffee is stale, sour from having been heated for too long, but Tony drinks it, forcing his lips to curl into a smile instead of a grimace.

It mustn’t work, because Rogers gives him a suspicious look that turns into something rather worried. Frowning, he grumbles, “You don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?” Tony asks, smiling wider, trying to act casual. He used to have a knack for it. Back when he was a businessman, but the life of schmoozing is long behind him.

Rogers looks away from him, glaring at the mug sitting on the table in front of him. “The coffee.”

“Sure I do.” Tony laughs, leaning back in his chair. “I definitely like coffee, google me if you don’t believe it.”

Rogers jerks his head around to frown at him questioningly.

Still chuckling, Tony takes another deliberate, exaggerated sip of his coffee, this time managing not to grimace. “I promise you, darling, the top Google result will be all about how much I love coffee.”

It’s not a lie, about him loving coffee, though he doubts that will be the top search result for his name. It’d more likely be about how much he loves alcohol. Not that that is wrong either. He’d do almost anything for a stiff drink right then, anything to make him feel more comfortable.

He finishes his coffee, then sits with Rogers in uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes before he excuses himself, thanking Rogers for the coffee, and apologising that he is still on the clock and should get back to work. He tries not to feel bad as he leaves, picking up his tool bag by the door as he goes. Tony shuts the door behind himself, and resolutely decides that he’s not going to repeat that process ever again.

On his way back to the office he stops in at a café and orders a coffee with creamer and two sugars.

///

Two weeks later he sees the job card with Rogers’ name on it in his pigeonhole. It’s not routine maintenance, this time there’s the box checked for repairs, so Tony packs his truck full of spare parts and drives back out to Rogers’ pokey little house. When he gets there, he goes through the usual pleasantries, smiles his best smile at Rogers as he makes his way to the bathroom, tool bag slung over his shoulder, the squeak of rubber tyres on floorboards accompanying him down the hallway.

“What seems to be the problem?” He asks as he sets his tool bag down on the bathroom floor.

Rogers stops in the doorway, rocking his wheel chair backwards and forwards. “Dunno. It was making funny noises.”

Tony raises an eyebrow at Rogers. “Funny noises?”

Rogers hunches his shoulders and glares at him. “I don’t know. You’re the expert here, I’m just-”

He bites the sentence off, clenching his jaw, and Tony’s almost relieved that he didn’t continue the sentence. He’s not sure what he could have said to ameliorate the situation if Rogers’ got all self-deprecating.

“Okay, I’ll put it through its paces and see what I can find. Stick around to point out the funny noises if you notice them again?” Tony moves closer to the LAYLAH, hitting the power button.

Rogers doesn’t reply, but he stays in the hallway just outside the bathroom door, glaring at the shower cubicle like it personally offends him. After the first few minutes, Tony barely even notices his presence, focusing on the task at hand instead. He checks everything over, consults the troubleshooting manual, asks Rogers over and over if he could hear the noises again, but each time he gets a stoic shake of his head in response.

Stumped, Tony heads back out to his truck, grabbing a few spare parts that he would have had to change out next service anyway. Heading back inside he glances in the kitchen on his way past, seeing that the coffee machine is going again, a pot of coffee brewing. Something else catches his eye. Sitting on the counter, next to the coffee machine is a piece of paper, careful script handwriting spelling out a simple reminder _Make a fresh pot of coffee for Tony._

Tony feels an ache beneath his ribs, sharp and cold, the type that has him wanting to reach for a drink so he can drown the feeling. He shakes his head and turns back out into the hallway, heading for the bathroom.

He finishes the job, replacing a few parts, and then packs everything away again. He expects the invitation for coffee before he gets it, and despite his resolution last time, he accepts with a smile.

This time, when he sits at the kitchen table and drinks coffee without creamer, sugar or whiskey, Tony places his tablet on the table so he can jot down his job report with one hand, so the silence doesn’t feel so stifling. Rogers seems to be watching his hand tapping at the tablet with a vague interest, a slight frown pinched between his eyebrows. Despite all the frowning the man does, he is certainly attractive. Something ruggedly handsome about him, like the classic movie stars from the 40s, he thinks, sneaking glances at Rogers over the rim of his coffee mug. Not that Tony should be entertaining thoughts like that, since Rogers is a customer, and Tony is there to service his equipment, not his, ahem, _equipment_.

Pushing the thought from his head, Tony sets his empty coffee mug down on the table, closing the protective case back over his tablet. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Rogers glances at him, setting down his own coffee mug that is still nearly full. “Thanks for coming out to look at that thing. Sorry it seemed to be a waste of your time.”

Standing up, Tony takes his mug to the sink, then stops to grab his tablet off the table. “Nonsense, darling, it’s all part of the service.”

Rogers’ ears seem to go red, and Tony can see the swathe of red across the back of his neck when he ducks his head. “Still, wasn’t anything wrong with the stupid thing. Shouldn’t have called you out.”

He has the urge to reach out and touch Rogers, a friendly hand on his shoulder, the offer of a hand to shake, but there’s something standoffish about Rogers. Something fragile and breakable, but in a way that Tony thinks he’d get punched if he even suggested those two words might apply to him. “Like I said, it’s all part of the service.”

///

It happens every time. Tony knows he should take a step back, should make sure he has another job right after so he can’t dawdle at the end of the jobs he does for Rogers. He knows he should make excuses, apologise, even just straight up tell Rogers that he can’t hang around for coffee. Except, every time he walks through the door he can smell fresh brewed coffee, can see the two mugs set out by the coffee machine as he passes the kitchen. Can feel the way that Rogers watches him as he’s packing up, hopeful and expectant, and he can’t stop himself from agreeing to coffee, and sitting in Rogers’ kitchen with him, having stilted conversation.

It goes from them barely talking while Tony fills out his job report to Tony not shutting up, talking and filling the silence of the kitchen. He talks about work, talks about the technical stuff, babbles about the improvements he could make to the LAYLAHs if only the boss would let him. He always expects Rogers’ eyes to glaze over with boredom, to tune out and ignore him, but every time he catches Rogers’ gaze, he’s looking at him intently, like he’s hanging on to every word that Tony says.

As the months roll by, summer moving into autumn then into winter, Tony learns that there are good days and bad days. On bad days he finds the TV playing in the living room, showing tragically tacky day time television shows, the type where he’s sure it takes one character three weeks to walk down a flight of stairs. On really bad days, the TV is off and instead the record player is going, a Bing Crosby record spinning on the turntable. Those days he makes a point to fuss around with the service longer. Makes a point to linger over his coffee, or even ask for a refill. Those days he feels bad if he leaves while there is still a haunted, lost look in Rogers’ eyes.

Somewhere around Thanksgiving Rogers becomes Steve, and Tony frets about him for the whole holiday, while he sits with Jarvis, the man who used to be his butler, back when he had the money to employ people, and drinks too much.

He frets until the job card with Steve’s name on it appears in his pigeonhole next, and he feels himself rattling with nervous energy the whole drive over.

When he gets there, there’s another car parked in the street outside Steve’s house, right in the place where he usually parks his truck. He parks a little further down the block, pulling his coat tight as he climbs out of his truck and grabs his tool bag. He expects Steve to have visitors, expects there to be other people in the house for once, a thought that makes him smile, because he likes to think that Steve isn’t really as lonely as he seems.

Except there’s no one else in the house, and to make matters worse, the front door is unlocked when he gets there and the house impossibly cold. Steve’s in the living room, a blanket tucked over his lap, a far away look in his eyes. It isn’t a good day, Tony realises. In fact it might be the worse day he’s seen yet.

As he shuts the front door behind him, he pauses, studying the vehicle outside and the driver who is still sitting in there. Through the window glass he gets the impression of a female, relatively young, probably early thirties like himself and Steve. He can tell she’s looking up at the house, at him in the doorway, but instead of getting out of the car, she starts the vehicle again and pulls away from the kerb.

He feels like he might have interrupted something important. Guilt settles low in his stomach as he greets Steve on his way past. He makes a point of keeping his voice light, talks incessantly about anything and everything. He shares stories of Jarvis from over the break, talks about the call out he’d had Thanksgiving morning to fix something for Mrs Talbot, and ended up taking home three boxes of food that she and her adult children who finally visited had insisted he take for the inconvenience.

He’s not sure how much Steve hears. Not sure if Steve even wants to listen, but he had followed him to the bathroom door, waiting out in the hallway like he usually does, so he keeps talking anyway. He’s ten minutes into the job before he realises that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the LAYLAH. A glance over at Steve, where he sits in his wheelchair, looking marginally less haunted than he had when Tony arrived, no longer white knuckling the wheels, is all Tony needs to keep his mouth shut and keep working.

There’s no coffee on the go, he notices as he makes his way back to the front door, tool bag slung over his shoulder. For the first time in months, there isn’t a pot of coffee waiting, though he can see the dog-eared note on the counter next to the coffee machine still reminding Steve to make fresh coffee for him. A few months ago he would have seen that as a positive, a chance to not have to loiter and make stilted small talk. Now though, now it’s not a good sign at all.

He looks back at Steve, setting his tool bag down by the front door. “How about a coffee, hey?”

Steve looks up at him, surprised, then he gets an almost smile. “If you’ve got time.”

“For you, darling, always.” And he finds that he means it. He’d suffer through a million black coffees if it meant he could get another one of those almost smiles out of Steve.

///

Tony realises just how terribly and ill advisably gone he is for Steve when he wakes up with a hangover, three missed calls from his boss and plans he’d drawn up for prosthetics.

He knows he’s well and truly fucked when he finds himself ordering black coffee on his way to work. By choice. Black coffee without whiskey.

He knows that he has to put a stop to it, that he can’t just keep stealing moments of a lonely man’s time and fanning his own infatuation. Besides, it’s just meant to be a job and Steve was just meant to be a customer.

Tony drinks his way steadily towards Christmas to try and wash ideas of driving around to Steve’s and spending the holiday with him out of his head.

///

He doesn’t drive to Steve’s for Christmas. He stays home, and eats the hot dinner Jarvis puts in front of him and then drinks the rest of his nutritional intake for the day.

///

The first day back at work after Christmas he notices that there’s a red repair slip in his pigeonhole, meaning that he has a major repairs needed. His stomach sinks when he sees Steve’s name at the top of it, his mind supplying him with all sort of terrible images of Steve getting hurt because the LAYLAH failed while he was using it.

The truck creeps over the speed limit time and time again as Tony drives to Steve’s place, fingers tapping restlessly at the steering wheel while he fidgets in his seat. By the time he pulls up out the front of Steve’s place he’s imagined a hundred scenarios, all of them ending with Steve in the hospital. It doesn’t help that the front door isn’t locked and the inside of the house is almost as cold as it is outside. It definitely doesn’t help that every light in the place is off.

“Steve?” Tony hesitates just inside the door, hoping for an answer, hoping that Steve is fine. He’s not sure his heart would cope if he isn’t.

“Tony?”

The voice comes from the living room, and Tony dumps his tool bag by the door, telling himself that it would be unseemly to run towards the living room. He stops in the doorway, sways at the sight that greets him. Steve’s wheelchair sits empty by the couch, symbolising everything that Tony had feared he’d find when he got there. Then he sees Steve, lying on the couch under a pile of blankets that seem to just sit on top of him rather than cover him properly. Without stepping any closer, Tony can already hear the rattle and strain of Steve’s breathing, dangerously wet sounding.

“Oh, darling.” He whispers out the endearment, since it’s gotten to the point where he can’t stop himself any more. He moves closer, stepping over a photo album lying face down on the floor, to crouch down beside the couch. “Are you alright, Steve?”

Steve fixes him with a blurry gaze, one side of his lips kicking up in an almost smile and rasps out. “Just swell.”

It’s followed by a hacking cough.

“Doesn’t sound real healthy there, darling. Have you seen a doctor?” He reaches out, pressing the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead, feeling the skin there hot and clammy. “Not supposed to get sick over the holidays, darling, don’t you know the rules?”

Steve glares at him, but it loses some it’s bite with his flushed cheeks and the way he’s buried under a pile of blankets. “Never been good at following rules.”

He coughs again, and Tony feels something constrict in his chest. “Do you want me to call someone? Someone who can take you to a doctor? An ambulance?”

Steve shakes his head, closing his eyes. “Just do what you came here to do, don’t worry about me.”

Easier said than done, Tony thinks, hesitating for a while before he pushes himself back up to his feet and heads back out to the hallway. Picking up his tool bag he tells himself that he’s here to fix the company equipment. He isn’t here to play nurse, or paramour. He’s just the repairman, and occasional coffee buddy.

The LAYLAH isn’t as damaged as he thought it might be, just a bearing that came loose, but it had stopped the whole thing from working. While he’s fixing it, he designs a whole new system in his head, something that would work so much better, if only he was allowed to design things instead of just fix them.

Once he’s finished he packs everything back away again, carting his tool bag back down the hallway to the front door, dropping it there before he stops in at the living room again. At first he thinks that Steve has fallen asleep, but then he sees him squinting at him through the dark.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles, coughing again, a deep barking hack that sounds like it’s going to rattle his lungs out of his chest. “Forgot to make fresh coffee.”

The laughter comes unbidden and Tony presses his hand over his mouth to stop it when Steve’s face creases into an offended frown. “Oh, darling, that’s hardly a problem right now. I can cope without a coffee.”

If anything that just makes Steve frown even more. He struggles for a moment to extract one hand from under the blanket pile and pulls himself more upright on the couch. “You don’t like the coffee?”

Tilting his head, Tony smirks, “Now you’re just putting words in my mouth. Besides, I thought I told you to google me if you had any doubts about me and coffee.”

Steve slumps back into the couch, glancing away. He looks worn out, face flushed just from the effort of trying to sit up. Tony can hear the rattling in his breath from the other side of the room. Crossing the room, Tony stoops to pick up the photo album from the floor, turning it over before he goes to close it. Just as he’s folding the two covers back together he catches sight of the photos inside. Photos of Steve, standing on his own two legs, one arm slung around the shoulders of a pretty woman. He doesn’t stare, doesn’t even pause, shutting the photo album and setting it down on the coffee table, where it’s in easy reach if Steve wants it again.

He didn’t have to study the woman in the photo to recognise her as the woman he’d seen sitting in the car out the front of Steve’s house after Thanksgiving.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?” He asks, carefully perching on the edge of the coffee table, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Steve shakes his head again. “I’m okay.”

“Not sure I believe you, darling.” Tony tries to keep his voice light, but he can hear the concern in his voice, even through the casual smile he gives Steve. Reaching out, he straightens the blankets out over Steve, tugging them down so they cover him fully. “Is there anything that I get for you?”

Steve shakes his head, eyes slipping closed as he settles further into the couch. Watching him closely, Tony tries to remind himself that this isn’t part of his job. That he isn’t the one who is supposed to be looking after Steve. He can barely look after himself on a good day, but a part of him really wishes he was allowed to.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks quietly, expecting to get a nod in response, but Steve stays still for a long time, long enough that Tony thinks he might have fallen asleep, before he shakes his head again.

He stays, because Steve wants him to, and because he can’t make himself leave. He doesn’t care the he runs long over the usual job time and that he’ll have to explain it when he gets back. He doesn’t care that he’s only the repairman and that he isn’t supposed to care.

There’s nothing in the world that could convince him to leave right now, not with Steve like this. Not even the burning need for a drink.

///

As the new year rolls around, Tony finds himself in a new role at work. The manager pulls him off the maintenance route and puts him in a planning and research role. It’s exactly where he wanted to be, moving up the line, having more responsibility. He supervises the maintenance guys, is in charge of new installations and major repairs and upgrades. It does mean he doesn’t get out of the office very often. He doesn’t get Steve’s job cards any more. He doesn’t get to go to Steve’s and fix things and drink black coffee.

He tells himself that he’ll go to Steve’s after work, to explain that he can’t come around in work hours any more. He tells himself that for a week straight, but every night that he leaves work it is late, too late to go to Steve’s. Too late for a social visit. Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow he’ll go visit Steve.

Tomorrow comes and goes.

Then the next day.

Suddenly it’s the middle of January and he still hasn’t managed to leave the office before ten at night, still hasn’t managed to go visit Steve.

He’s heading to the break room to make coffee one day when he overhears a couple of the technicians talking. Justin, the one who took over most of his route is leaning against the counter, right in front of the coffee machine, and barely moves when Tony indicates that he wants to get to it.

“-don’t know what’s wrong with him. I tell you, he must be some sort of a hypochondriac of something. Job card said there was something wrong with his LAYLAH, but when I get there I couldn’t find anything wrong with it.” Justin says, glancing at Tony as he does. “In fact, Stark, think he was one of yours. You know, bit of a shut in, no legs.”

Steve. Tony feels his name like an ache in his chest, and a sharp stab of guilt follows. He misses Steve. Misses the coffees with him, the friendship they’re been forming. And to hear Justin complaining about him gives him the urge to dump his coffee straight down Justin’s back.

He doesn’t though. He puts on his most diplomatic smile, perfected from years of practice running SI, and turns toward Justin, speaking with faux goodwill. “Maybe, Justin, if you were half the tech you claimed to be, you would have been able to find something wrong. I hope you haven’t been taking short cuts on all your jobs.”

He leaves it at that, hearing the stunned silence in the break room behind him, before one of the other techs lets out a low, drawn out “Burn”.

Tony makes a point of getting off work earlier that day, but it’s still dark by the time he pulls up outside of Steve’s house with a couple of pizzas and a six pack of beer in tow.

Looking up as he gets out of his truck, Tony notices that Steve’s house is dark. Pizza boxes in one hand, beer tucked under his arm, he frowns, standing on the footpath, wondering if maybe it is too late at night to call in on Steve. Except he has the food, and he feels bad for not having visited Steve in so long. Not to mention what Justin had said when he’d been running his mouth earlier that day.

Never mind the fact that he just misses his repair and coffee dates with Steve.

That thought fortifies him enough to head for Steve’s front door. It’s as he reaches the top of the ramp that he notices the door is ajar, the doormat skew-whiff. Carefully Tony pushes the door open with one foot. The hallway beyond the door is dark, the house cold and silent.

“Steve?” He calls out, keeping his voice low, just in case there is anyone else inside that he doesn’t want to alert the attention of. He stoops down to set the pizza boxes and the beer on the ground, just in case he needs both hands free. “Steve, darling, are you there?”

A groan from down the hallway catches his attention. He doesn’t think after that, he rushes into the house, down the hallway towards the sound. He flicks lights on as he goes, first the kitchen, then the living room, both rooms are empty, in more ways that one. There are things missing that he is sure were there before. The television, the turntable. The coffee machine. His phone is in his hand, ready to call 911 as he skids to a stop at the bathroom door.

The scene inside is utter carnage, the LAYLAH is all but torn off the wall, the chassis dented in multiple places. There’s still no sign of Steve though, so Tony ignores the damage and the pang in his chest at the destruction of tech.

He’s never been further down the hallway than the bathroom, a fact that he ignores as he keeps walking. “Steve?”

There’s another groan, and then he thinks he hears the faint sound of his name as he draws level with the last doorway. The door is mostly closed, but swings open when Tony touches it. He reaches inside, feeling along the wall for a light switch, flicking it on to illuminate the room.

As light washes over the room, Tony feels like his heart might stop in his chest. The room is in disarray, Steve’s wheelchair tipped over on its side near a bookshelf, whose contents had been dumped on the ground, the shelves knocked out of place. At first he doesn’t see Steve. At first he just sees the blood, dark stains against the grey comforter.

He’s dialling 911 before he even gets into the room properly, rattling off the address to the dispatcher when they answer the call, reporting the break in, asking for an ambulance. He falters in his request when he finally finds Steve, on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. There’s blood, more blood than could possibly be healthy, it’s all over Steve’s clothes, through his hair, turning the blond strands dark and sticking them to his scalp.

“Oh, fuck.” He whispers as he drops to his knees, almost dropping his phone. “Oh, darling.”

Steve cracks an eye open, the other swollen shut, and his lips twitch in what might have been a grimace, but also might have been one of his almost smiles. “Hey, repairman.”

“What happened, darling? How badly are you hurt?” Tony asks, jamming his phone between his shoulder and ear. “Where does it hurt?”

Steve starts to lift his head, his eye rolling back a bit as he does, before he drops it back to the floor, grimacing again. “Had worse. Should see the other guys.”

Reaching out, Tony runs his fingers along Steve’s hairline, trying to push his hair back to see where the blood is coming from. “Didn’t see any other guys, you must have scared them off.”

“Good.” Steve mumbles, lifting one arm up to prod at his cheek. “They didn’t know who they were fucking with.”

Tony barks out an involuntary laugh, and in the distance, he thinks he can hear sirens. “I’m sure they got a lot more than they bargained for. Now, come on darling, I need you to tell me what hurts.”

Steve tilts his face towards him, setting him with a serious look, completely deadpan as he admits. “Well, Tony, I can’t feel my feet.”

They stare at each other for a moment, before Steve’s mouth twitches again and he huffs out a sound suspiciously like a laugh, and Tony almost snorts in response. He repositions the phone enough so he’s talking directly into it. “Well, I think it’s safe to say he has a concussion.”

///

Tony follows the ambulance to the hospital, then has to sit in the waiting room for hours, not sure what he should be doing. When one of the nurses had asked him what his relationship with Steve was, he’d blanked, didn’t think to lie, just said they were friends.

So he sits there, waiting, thinking about the pizza going cold by the front door, because he hadn’t thought to pick it up again on the way past. He thinks about Steve’s house, the police in it taking photos, and wonders if he should have stayed back with them, told them what was missing. If they even cared at the moment what was missing. Maybe they didn’t need to know that. Maybe only the insurance company needed to know that.

He doesn’t know. The only time he’d been robbed it had been through carefully worded legal documents. There had been no point in reporting that to the police.

He thinks of all those things so he doesn’t have to think about sitting in a hospital again. Even thinking about Greg’s smug face was better than thinking about hours of scans and consultations and being told that it was inoperable and there was nothing they could do. Sorry.

Except there had been someone willing to do something, if he sank enough money into it. Which he had, because he was selfish and too afraid of dying like that. He hadn’t wanted to be killed by the ticking time bomb in his head. So he’d beat it. He won. And lost everything else in the process.

Pushing the thoughts away, Tony stands up, pacing the length of the waiting room. Stopping at the vending machine to buy a Coke, hoping the caffeine and sugar would override the wish for alcohol. He’s on his way back to his seat when he sees her. The pretty woman from Steve’s photo album, who’d been parked out the front of his house after Thanksgiving is standing just inside the main doors, watching him with a guarded expression. It’s possible she recognises him from just after Thanksgiving.

He lifts a hand, awkwardly, to wave, not knowing what else to do. He’d been suave once. Charming. Not that he seems to remember how to be that any more.

She bites her lip, and for a second Tony thinks she might ignore him, before she crosses the waiting room towards him. “Excuse me, are you here for Steve Rogers?”

Nodding, Tony shifts the hold of his Coke can over to his left and offers his right to shake. “I’m Tony. I found Steve, this evening.”

She looks at him curiously for a few seconds before shaking his hand. “I’m Gail. The hospital called, so I guess that means I’m still his emergency contact. They wouldn’t tell me what happened, just that he’d been brought in.”

Tony indicates to the seats behind him, sitting down with an empty chair as a buffer once Gail has settled. “Some kind of robbery, as far as I can tell. The place was pretty trashed, stuff missing. Looks like Steve confronted the robbers, got in a bit of a fight.”

Gail sucks in a breath, pressing her hand over her mouth. “Oh dear. Is he, is he going to be okay?”

Tony huffs a laugh, still full of nervous energy and worry. “Yeah, I think so. Think they got more of a fight than they bargained for. I’m pretty sure he has a concussion, a few cuts and bruises. I’m not sure the full extent of his injuries. I’m not on the need to know register.”

Gail looks at him, scrutinising, dropping her hand back into her lap. “Oh, you’re not his,” She pauses, looking awkward. “I thought maybe you two were together.”

He feels the stab of longing that has been there on and off for a couple of months now. Shaking his head he gives Gail the most reassuring smile he can. “No, definitely not. I was the repairman, up until a few weeks ago. And not in the flimsily plotted porno kind of way. We’re just friends. Don’t worry.”

There’s a twitch of a smile before she looks away again, looking at her hands as they wind together in her lap. “I wasn’t worried. Well, that’s a lie. I always worry about him. It was nice to think he wasn’t alone. He’s been so alone since he came back.”

“I’m guessing you have history with him?” He can’t stop himself from asking. All he can think of is the photo in Steve’s photo album, and the way she’d sat in her car out the front of Steve’s house.

Gail sniffs, lifting a hand to wipe at her face. “This is silly, it’s been nearly three years. We were engaged before he was deployed. Were going to get married when he finished that tour, only he didn’t come home like he was supposed to. Eight months, he was missing. We all thought he was dead. Then when he came home, I tried, I really did. But he was so angry all the time.”

He’s never been very good with emotions, never been particularly good at comfort, so he feels like all he can offer is a gentle hand on Gail’s shoulder, not even sure what words to say. It makes him realise that he doesn’t really know Steve all that well. There are a lot of things they’ve never talked about, Steve’s time in the army being one of them. Tony knows enough not to ask prying questions about that, and not to ask about how Steve lost his legs. He only guessed that it was all related.

Gail sniffs again, opening her handbag to dig out a tissue, dabbing at her face. “You probably think I’m a horrible person, for not sticking it out, for not staying with him.”

“No,” Tony responds, and he knows he means it. Steve’s a mess, and he only knows that because he is one too. Like knows like. He pushed enough people away when he had the brain tumour, still pushes people away because he acts like he cares more about the alcohol than any human being. He and Steve aren’t all that different, which is maybe why they’ve gotten along so well. “I can’t imagine Steve would have made it easy.”

///

It’s not until the next day that Tony gets in to see Steve, when visiting hours are open again. After his conversation with Gail, once her new husband had arrived and he’d confirmed that they were going to stay, he’d left, gone back to Steve’s house. He had Steve’s keys in his pocket, so he left himself in. The pizza was a lost cause, it looked as though it had been run over, possibly by the gurney they’d wheeled Steve out on. However, all was not lost, because the beer was still good, so Tony spent his evening, straightening up the kitchen and living room, working his way through six beers. He wanted to get started on repairing the LAYLAH, but he didn’t have any of his tools with him, and he’d have to wait until the office opened again in the morning to get them. He poked around it enough to decide that it could be repaired, rather than replaced. Which would hurry things up a bit, at least. He could have it repaired by the time Steve was home again.

When he wakes up the next morning, he realises that he’s still at Steve’s on his couch, a line of beer bottles staring accusingly at him from the coffee table, and the coffee machine still, regretfully, stolen. He heads home for a shower and a change of clothes, then heads back to the hospital. He buys two black coffees at the café on the ground floor, and asks at the reception desk where he can find Steve. The receptionist directs him towards the ward on the third floor, so coffees in hand, Tony heads for the elevator.

When he makes his way through the ward on the third floor, taking directions from one of the nurses. He pauses in the doorway of the room that they pointed him towards, scanning the area. There are four beds, three of them occupied. Steve is in one to the right, closest to the door, propped up on pillows so he’s more or less sitting up, a book in hand, blinking at the pages.

He looks up as Tony passes through the doorway. The right side of his face is still swollen, purplish in colour. “Hey, Tony.”

“Hey, yourself. Not looking too flash there, Steve.” Tony crosses the room, holding out the coffee he’d bought him. “How you feeling?”

Setting aside his book, Steve shrugs, taking the coffee from Tony. “Had worse. Been better. Thanks.”

There’s a chair in the corner of the room, Tony grabs it and drags it over to beside Steve’s bed, collapsing into it and taking a swig of his coffee. “Pretty fancy digs you have here. Going to be checked in long?”

Steve shakes his head, taking the lid off of his coffee and setting it aside, blowing on the coffee before the taking a sip. “Don’t know. The doctors seem to think they need to keep an eye on me. Like I hadn’t been looking after myself just fine for years now.”

“Weren’t taking such good care of yourself last night.” Tony says nonchalantly, staring down at this coffee. “I’m guessing you’ve been leaving your door unlocked again.”

Steve grunts in response. “Doesn’t matter. They broke the living room window to get in anyway.”

“Smashed the place up pretty bad, from what I saw.” Tony replies, taking another sip of his coffee. “They even stole your coffee maker, the bastards.”

“Shit.” Steve mumbles. “Guess it’s back to instant then.”

Tony scoffs. “Don’t expect me to stick around for coffee any more then.”

Steve glances at him, looking a little hurt. Tony swallows the sip of coffee he’d just taken and holds out a hand, trying to halt Steve before he says anything.

“It’s okay, I’ll get you another coffee machine. Probably a new TV as well. Not so sure about your LAYLAH though.”

Steve very deliberately takes another sip of his coffee and doesn’t meet Tony’s eye.

“They must have some serious grievances with it, mind you, looks like they took to it with a hammer.” Tony waits and watches for a reaction. Steve stays staring across the other side of the room. He notices that Steve’s ears and the back of his neck are starting to turn red. “Real anger issues, I’d say. I can’t believe that people would do that to a LAYLAH.”

Steve clears his throat, hand clenching around the edge of the blanket covering him. “It wasn’t them.”

Humming confirmedly, Tony takes another sip of coffee. “Didn’t think so. Any reason why you did that?”

Instead of answering, Steve sculls the rest of his coffee and sets aside the take away cup, settling back into the pillows and glaring at Tony for a long moment. “You’re replacement didn’t think there was anything wrong with it yesterday. Still wasn’t working right when he left. So I tried to fix it.”

Raising an eyebrow, Tony can’t keep the smile off his face. “That so. Well I think you well and truly fixed it.”

Steve glares at him for a moment longer, cheeks slowly going red. “Wouldn’t have had to if what’s-his-name had done it properly.”

“No doubt.” He replies, drinking the last of his coffee before standing up to put both the takeaway mugs in the rubbish bin out in the hallway. When he settles back in the chair beside Steve’s bed, they sit in a comfortable silence for a while. Something they’d perfected over time. He waits until Steve looks relaxed again, doesn’t look so indignant and guilty any more before he speaks again. “I met Gail last night.”

Steve’s whole body stiffens, hands clenching around the blanket so tightly Tony worries he might rip it. He grunts, though Tony can’t decipher if it is a grunt of confirmation, question, or dismissal.

“Lovely lady.” Tony continues, watching Steve carefully for a reaction, slowly leaning forward in his chair and reaching out towards Steve. He telegraphs his actions, carefully touching the back of Steve’s hand before he gently pries it loose from the blankets. “She worries about you.”

Steve’s hand slowly relaxes under his, fingers straightening out, and he doesn’t protest when Tony presses their palms together and threads his fingers between Steve’s. He can feel all the calluses on Steve’s palm, on his fingers. Feels the way Steve’s fingers tighten around his own.

“Did she say anything to you?” Steve asks, haltingly, not quite making eye contact. “About me?”

Tony squeezes his hand, resists the urge to pick it up and kiss Steve’s knuckles. He’s half sure he’d get his teeth knocked in if he tried. “Only that you are an impossible, insufferable bastard.”

He flashes Steve a smile that he hopes will convey the fact that it isn’t a direct quote. Running his thumb against Steve’s skin, he hopes Steve can read between the lines. “But that’s okay, darling. So am I.”

Steve finally meets his eye, his lips twitching in an almost smile. He squeezes Tony’s hand in response.

///

It takes a month, a month of late night dinners in Steve’s living room, a month of early morning coffees in Steve’s kitchen, before Steve agrees to go out on a date with him. He’s almost been living there, except for work and the occasional trip home to sleep, but it takes that long to wear Steve down. To convince him that it isn’t a terrible idea.

It isn’t as though they don’t kiss, don’t spend nights together in Steve’s bed. It isn’t as if Tony doesn’t get to do dirty, dirty things to Steve in that month. Because he does, multiple times and with great enthusiasm from both parties. It just takes a month before he is able to convince Steve to go out in public with him.

He thinks it’s more the ‘going out in public’ part, than the ‘with him’ part, so he doesn’t take it personally. Besides, he knows blowjobs are one of Steve’s weaknesses, and he can get Steve to agree to almost anything after sucking his brain out through his dick. He also knows that despite how independent and tough Steve is every day, that he doesn’t at all mind Tony taking control in the bedroom. It really is a beautiful thing to take Steve apart, make him swear and moan and fight against coming undone. When he does it is a beautiful thing, and Tony could live forever on the moments of seeing Steve fall apart under him.

It’s no hardship to wait a month before getting to take Steve on a proper date. When they finally do, it’s an unseasonably beautiful day, the sun is out despite the air being crisp, and they make their way to a café not far from Steve’s house. Somewhere within easy walking distance, it was the only way to get Steve to agree, because he didn’t want to have the spectacle of getting in and out of Tony’s truck.

They take a seat outside, at one of the tables on the footpath, Tony moving chairs out of the way so Steve can fit his wheelchair in. A waitress approaches them as they settle in, pad in hand, a couple of menus tucked under her arm, which she hands out.

“Good morning gentlemen, would you like a moment to look at the menus, or can I take a drink order to start with?” She smiles politely, gaze barely straying to Steve’s wheelchair, so Tony reminds himself to tip her extra, for being professional.

“I’m happy to start with a coffee, how about you, darling?” He glances up from the menu to look at Steve, who nods absently, still scanning his own menu.

“How do you take your coffee, sirs?” The waitress asks, pen at the ready.

“Black, no sugar, thank you?” Steve replies, glancing up enough to make eye contact before looking back at the menu.

When the waitress turns to Tony, he doesn’t even think, just rattles off his usual order of coffee with creamer and two sugars. It’s only after the waitress leaves that he realises Steve is staring at him suspiciously.

“What is it, darling?” He asks, glancing back at his menu, deciding he might just settle for a croissant, since he’s not particularly hungry.

“You drink your coffee with creamer and sugar?” Steve sets out the question carefully, slight frown creasing his forehead, sounding overly suspicious.

It dawns on him then, what he said, and why Steve is looking at him like that. There’s no point denying it, he realises, but he still tries, giving his best innocent smile. “Sometimes?”

Steve just frowns harder, jaw setting, and he looks almost hurt, like he’s questioning every single one of their interactions, no longer believing them. It definitely not the reaction that Tony wants.

Tony places his hand over Steve’s, hooking his thumb underneath his palm and squeezing. “Darling, love, don’t be like that.”

Steve clenches his jaw tighter, swallowing thickly, but the frown eases up a fraction. Tony squeezes his hand again, until Steve curls his fingers to hold onto his thumb.

“For you, darling, I’d drink a million black coffees.” He whispers, smiling softly. He lifts Steve’s hand up, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. It’s enough to get an almost smile from Steve, and Tony knows, while he still might not love black coffee, he definitely loves Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> Due to writing this story while taking part in sprints on the 616 Discord server, this story has earned a "sadly not a porno" tag, as there was a lot of suggestions that I was writing a trashy porno, but I really really wasn't. Not this time anyway.


End file.
